


White Pages (When stray cats trip you, don't expect a soft landing!)

by limerentia



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comedy, Crack, Hearing Voices, Low Fantasy, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerentia/pseuds/limerentia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the thirteenth day, Changmin leaves his house. For escape or for inspiration, it all depends on which—or who— he  finds first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Firsts are usually crazy! [Prologue]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if younger readers are aware of what the White Pages are (or were, since even I haven't seen one for a long time now), but just in case: it's a directory which contains a listing of all telephone subscribers in a particular area and their respective numbers, distributed annually by the telephone companies[.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Telephone_directory) These are thick and heavy books which could easily kill an unsuspecting cockroach when dropped, but that’s not what it’s made for!

 

 

 

The first time Changmin encountered the name  _Jung Yunho_  was on the White Pages, the letters of it fitted snugly in between two other Jungs whose first names he forgot almost immediately (and would likely remain irrelevant to his life like that odd lint stuck on his landlord’s coat hung by the doorway, but that one’s a story for another day).

 

The name was the product of a lazy afternoon spent in the streets downtown; he had walked around, aimlessly manoeuvring through the maze of food carts, thrift shops and just… usual noisy market folk, in hopes of curing himself of his writer’s block.

 

Thirteen days before that, he had opened a new word document, the cursor in it daring him to begin writing for his next deadline in three weeks. Twelve days later, the neat white sheet and the blinking line was starting to look seductive, almost as seductive as one of the tenants down the hall, so wickedly smooth and fair, and winking at him every time he passed by. He has not once talked to that neighbor; similarly, he has not typed a single letter on that word file. When that night’s dream involved editors butchering writers and empty documents, he knew he had to get out of the house. For escape or for inspiration, he wasn't sure; it all depended on which he‘d manage to find first.

 

So Changmin found himself taking the train to downtown.

 

Downtown, however, was only five stations from his place. There’s not even a need to change trains. Changmin had admitted to himself right after he got out of the station that it was possibly his second worst escape plan, next only to pretending to be injured and greeting his editor in a wheelchair, to which his editor had quickly replied that his work does not require a working pair of legs and how the hell did he manage to cart himself three stories up with his notorious asocial behaviour? (It was during this time that Changmin swore to himself that editors were Satan’s representatives on earth and must at all costs not be allowed to go forth and multiply)

 

In case you’re wondering, the third worst idea was renting the flat next to his and getting a carpenter to install a connecting door behind the closet, a failed attempt at a personal Narnia when, during construction, his editor decided a surprise visit was in order—which proved to him once again that they were indeed hell spawns.

 

So far this is shaping up to be a messy narrative (as messy as  _that_ book shop, Changmin thinks).

 

Ah yes, that book shop near one of the downtown intersections. That was a great experience, wasn’t it. Well, since we’re already here and it’s already messy, it probably won’t hurt to discuss further the events that transpired in that book shop.

 

So let’s present it as a mini-story in this story.

 

 

\----------------------------------------

**Stray Cats and Crown Jewels**

Summary: Changmin and the Peanut Gallery go on a Field Trip

 

 

One would think that at the speed people are going digital, intellectually-stimulating reads would start piling up at secondhand stores to make knowledge more accessible to the lesser fortunate. Alas, it seems intellectuals still prefer to hold on to their papers for –how did they call it again, the “tactile aspect”? The books lining up the shelves of this book shop were either highly idealized romances or pre-digital age instruction manuals —or both, what with  _How to Date a Tamagotchi_. Changmin curses when he sees three sets of the entire Twilight series on the upper shelves and decides that enough is enough.

 

He’s almost outside when a cat starts clawing at his trousers, madly hissing like he had stepped on its tail.

 

Scratch that. He  _is_  stepping on it.

 

Luckily the cat’s as easily appeased as it is angered; it walks off soon after Changmin lifts his foot, with its thin, wiry tail swishing tall and proud as it leaves. Changmin mouths an apology to the animal nonetheless, nevermind that it probably doesn’t understand nor care now that it’s all over. He moves closer toward the exit when he stumbles and falls face first without any drop of grace into the cement floor.

 

Changmin’s mind is shrieking. " _Nothing is going right in this world!"_

 

 _“Something will. Eventually.”_  A voice in his head whispers.

 

Now Changmin’s your average isolated writer so he has his own Peanut Gallery of Voices, but this, this is one he hasn’t heard before.

 

 _"Hello? Who are you?"_  Changmin asks.

 

It doesn’t respond.

 

Of course it won’t, because it’s all inside his head.

 

Changmin knocks his forehead on the floor.

 

 _"D-do you know how f-f-filthy the floor is?”_  the neatfreak inside him asks, before wailing like a burning banshee and losing consciousness.

 

This is just great. He doesn’t have a single letter in his manuscript to show and he’s pretty sure his editor’s out in a cult meeting with her fellow demons, dancing around a bonfire in some secluded basement, and wow, now, he’s taken the leap from desperation to insanity by talking to himself.

 

He needs a drink. Preferably an ice-cold can of beer served on top of his neighbour, the one living down the hall.

 

He turns his head to the left, and the cat whose tail he previously stepped on is still there, now sitting on top of a small stack of books, watching him with an obviously judgmental gaze. Nevermind that Changmin is a dog-person and has zero experience with cats; that look is a judging look, and he won't accept anyone telling him otherwise.

 

Changmin notes its grayish fur, which was likely as white as cotton before the cat decided that hanging out with the downtown gangster cats was its calling in life. A single stripe of carroty orange runs from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail, the stripe so neatly out of place with the rest of its grayed fur that it wouldn’t be surprising if it happened to be painted on by a drunkard who had nothing better to do with his life.

 

Changmin narrows his eyes at the cat in an attempt to appear judgmental himself, but the cat appears to be cool —and more mature than him— and isn’t swayed. Changmin doesn’t give up and tries to up his game by narrowing his eyes further, until he can only see a sliver of the cat and not the fact that he absolutely looks dumb right now, lying on the floor with half-opened eyes. Finally, he sticks his tongue out and the cat draws its head back, appearing thoroughly offended, before turning around and scampering away. Boo yeah.

 

“Ahjussi.”

 

Changmin waits until he can no longer see a trace of the defeated cat anymore before looking up. It’s a teenage boy chewing on what seems to be gum, staring down at him, holding a familiar porn mag Changmin recognizes to be last year’s March issue. He had one copy of it in the bathroom and another under his bed, because. Practicality, right? And now the centrefold of both copies is permanently... folded.

 

Changmin recalls him to be the shopkeeper sitting by the counter earlier. The boy’s nostrils flare with each chew of the gum, and really, this view of a hormone-fuelled, sex-deprived boy from an angle below will probably leave him scarred for his entire life. Or at least a decade.

 

“What do you want?” Changmin asks him, irritated.

 

“Ha!” The boy breathes out, and Changmin is surprised how much larger his nostrils flare, “What do I want? Look at this freakshow here asking me what I want,” he tilts his head up and points the porn mag at him, and the nostrils disappear from Changmin’s view.

 

What replaces it is the boy’s crown jewels instead, after he takes a step forward in an attempt to appear intimidating.

 

 _"Oh my god he’s not wearing anything under those shorts?"_ A voice from the Peanut Gallery asks. It’s that pre-teen girl who joined the party two months ago.

 

 _"Wearing? He doesn’t have anything at all! It’s a girl!"_ Another voice. It’s that guy, the infamous fault-finder.

 

 _"No you fool, it’s just… small. Oh dear."_ The sympathetic aunt says.

 

At this point Changmin can practically hear everyone in his head heckling, howling, and crying. As for him, he just wants to pour a vat of acid into his eyes because this time around he’s so sure that the image won’t leave him and he’s most definitely going to be scarred for life.

 

“Get up,” the boy tells him, face as intimidating as a kicked puppy’s.

 

Changmin rises, rubbing his hands together then patting his trousers to remove any dirt before looking at him. Or to put it more specifically, looking  _down_  at him, because Changmin is taller than average and the boy is smaller than average. Huh, will you look at that.

 

He stares him in the eye and scoffs, “It’s small.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Nothing,” he says, and moves to leave.

 

He’s stopped by a hand barely on his shoulder, “Not so fast.”

 

“What?”

 

“You can’t just leave without buying anything, not after that doormat stunt you did.”

 

“Are you kidding me. Your books are shit, I’m not buying any of it.”

 

The boy sidesteps to Changmin’s front and puts on his best stern face, although it doesn't come out as stern as he intended. Changmin thinks the boy looks constipated instead but he doesn't dare mention it.

 

He considers his options on how to best escape this situation: a) he can carry the boy like a sack of rice and dump him on his seat by the counter then run, b) he can also kick the crown jewels to the fourth base then run, or c) he can just charge out like a bull, body slamming into the boy in the process.

 

Or d) he can buy a book and bolt. No physical contact required.

 

“Fine,” Changmin looks around; he’s just going to buy anything and get out of here. He scans the shelves to his left and sees one of the Twilight seri –he turns his head so fast he almost gets whiplash— then skims the shelves to his right from top to bottom.

 

Nope, not buying any of this shit.

 

He looks at the boy in front of him again and then at the bookshop’s counter, reconsidering Option A.

 

The counter’s height is up to his waist, and with its width Changmin can probably haul him over without giving him a concussion —though that is a tempting idea in itself. The cash register is placed on one end by the window, and on the other, just before a magazine rack, is a stack of White Pages.

 

That’s it.

 

Changmin points a finger to the stack, “How much is it for the White Pages?”

 

The boy gives him a look that says,  _Really?_  and rolls his eyes, “That’s not for sale.”

 

“Then I’m leaving.”

 

“It’s from thirteen years ago!”

 

“It says 2001. Of course it’s from thirteen years ago, you dumb kid. You think I can’t count too?”

 

“It’s not for sale!”

 

"Yeah I heard you the first time. Do you need a dictionary?"

 

"But it's not—"

 

“Shut up, I’m either buying that or nothing. So go on, get your ass to the register and ring it up,” Changmin flips open his wallet and takes out ten bucks, “do it in this second or I’m leaving.”

 

In one minute Changmin has three books of White Pages in hand and is pushed out of the shop. 

 

He looks at his purchase and sighs, unable to believe he had spent ten bucks on a wad of useless paper.

 

Well. He’ll find some use for it later. Hopefully.

 

 

**End**

\----------------------------------------

 

So that's what happened in the book shop.

 

Changmin had trudged around the downtown marketplace for sometime longer after that, eager to blur the horrifying images in his memory, before it occurred to him that maybe, the more he dwelt on things the more it'd get stuck in his head. And so, armed with this brilliant epiphany, he had decided to go back to his flat, but not before taking a small detour to the wishing fountain a few blocks away and tossing a 500-won coin into it, with the request that his editor not be waiting for him on his couch at home. And also for her car to get nicked, if possible.

 

 

It was on his fifth can of beer when the afternoon's purchase crossed his mind once again, and he came up with the superb and highly original idea of drunk-dialing strangers.

 

He was a bit smashed, therefore a bit more sociable, so why the hell not, right?

 

Right. So he went ahead and took one of the books, along with a pen from his desk. Just to reassure himself and get a little pumped up, he had yelled, “Yolo!” before he dropped the red felt pen on a random page.

 

The first victim of the pen was a Cho, but then it turned out that the number was busy, then a Kim whose line was already dead, then a Lee, who was disconnected, then a Park, also disconnected, then a Go, then another Cho, then…

 

Changmin had smashed the phone to its cradle after the seventeenth number, which was again unable to connect. But a drunk Changmin was an even more persistent Changmin than its sober counterpart, and the frustration had numbed before it even had a chance to let itself be known. So, with his eighth can of beer in hand, Changmin tried for the eighteenth time, going a hundred pages back and letting his fate hang by the red felt pen.

 

It landed on _Jung Yunho._

 

Changmin sniggered at that odd name and howled it like some stoned wolf as he pressed the numbers, “Jung Yunho~ Pick up thy phone, Yunho~”

 

For the first time that night, the call connected. Changmin fell to the floor in celebration and did a victory dance which resembled a dying tadpole, then went on to sing the Star Wars theme while he waited for  Jung Yunhoto answer.

 

It was on the twelfth ring when the other line picked up.

 

“Changmin? You finally called!”

 

But by then Changmin was already fast asleep.

 

 

\---

 

 

That was how Changmin first encountered the name _Jung Yunho._

 

 

\---

 

 

The second time Changmin encounters the name  _Jung Yunho_  is on a business card, the letters of it bold, gilt, and shining under the light of his front door. He narrows his eyes on the man it came with, sunshine smile too bright for the morning grouch that Changmin is, especially when he hasn’t taken his first piss for the day yet. 

 

Changmin scratches his stubble and reads the card again. Turns out he read it right the first time; the card did indicate _Museum Curator_  beneath the name, but that's not what he heard when the man introduced himself a minute ago.

 

"What did you say you were again?"

 

"Your inspiration!"

 

Changmin slams the door in his face.


	2. Count to ten before making life decisions! (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [zoetehemel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/zoetehemel/pseuds/zoetehemel), [n3uromanc3r](http://n3uromanc3r.livejournal.com/), [jesusluvsjaeho](http://jesusluvsjaeho.livejournal.com/), [aenxsuffersoul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aenxsuffersoul/pseuds/aenxsuffersoul), and [Lliyk-sensei](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lliyk/pseuds/Lliyk) whose kind words have helped in the struggle of pushing forward this piece. And to the readers who wondered what the hell the tomfoolery in the prologue was all about, and yet remain gracious enough to allow me to explain my disturbed self before bludgeoning me to death. This chapter is for you kind people.
> 
> (Rest assured, Yunho gets a generous amount of exposure this time.)

 

 

 

 

**Incoming call**   
**[Satan's Concubine]**

Changmin opens his kitchen cupboard and there, stashed inside, is his mobile phone that’s been ringing non-stop for the last half-hour. On its screen is a picture of his editor taken during the publishing company's party last December, with a couple of red squiggles on top of her head which Changmin had artistically drawn during the said party. The squiggles were supposedly horns, but Changmin was piss-drunk when he drew them so it ended up looking like shit. Literally shit. It’s as if two pieces of dung were frightfully misplaced and ended up staying on her head. There’s also an orange beard on her chin and a hot pink moustache on her lip, better-drawn than the horns, since those were added two days after the event as a part of Changmin’s therapeutic exercises for happiness. As the saying goes: if you can’t fight them, backstab them.

 

But since Changmin has no one to talk shit about her with, he settled for the next alternative. Doodling. It’s a growing-up thing, like going to junior high after elementary. Plus doodling won’t get him sued and there are twelve colours to choose from. Unlike slander, which only has the gray and white of a jail cell or the yellow bills of money he’ll have to pay. Or the red of his blood when he tries to cough out those yellows. Four colours versus twelve; slander simply didn’t stand a chance.

 

So he’s thoroughly vandalized her face to a monstrous mess, it’s almost difficult to determine whether it’s the picture or the fact that it’s his editor that's making Changmin’s bones cringe. Maybe it's the part that she doesn’t know about the photo yet. Or all of the above.

 

Definitely all of the above.

 

The phone rings for five more seconds before it stops, and in the silence that follows Changmin holds his breath. It’ll probably start ringing again in—

 

 

**Incoming call**   
**[Supercreeper]**

 

This time his blood goes cold.

 

It’s that curator again.

 

There’s no picture of the caller, but the name itself is enough to freak Changmin out, although of course that’s not the man’s real name. It’s Jung Yunho; however Changmin doesn’t save his contacts by their real name but by their real nature. Substance over form, they said.

 

So Supercreeper it is.

 

Changmin has spent exactly eighteen of the last twenty-four hours agonizing over Supercreeper and his origins. He can’t figure out how the man got his mobile number; after all, it was the landline phone which he’d used during the ridiculous drunk-dialling stunt two days ago. Moreover, how did that creep obtain even his home address? He had appeared at his doorstep the very next morning after the call, wearing a crisp white shirt and an armful of sunshine on his face, proclaiming about being Changmin’s “inspiration” like a total lunatic. Changmin had shut the door and gone back to bed, dismissing the entire affair as a stress-induced dream, but when he received a call from him yesterday afternoon saying that he was made to aid Changmin in his writing, Changmin realized shit just got real.

 

Whoever said dreams do come true can go shove a stick up their ass. They obviously don’t understand the horror of it all.

 

Changmin had gone back and forth his memories yesterday, only to arrive at the conclusion that he absolutely does not know this man. Therefore, the man is a stalker. Perfectly logical train of thought, his bald professor in Logic back in the university would be so proud of him.

 

He has also considered that it might be a prank from his college friends, but they’re all overseas trying to be the new-generation “global citizens” and he hasn’t talked to any of them after graduation so technically they’re not friends anymore, right? Right. There’s also his family, but then they’re all academics and too engrossed in their work in the university to bother coming up with a prank like this. Then there’s his editor. Come to think of it, she used to be his senior back in undergrad. So sweet she was touted the queen, but after graduation she too morphed; although unlike Changmin’s friends who morphed into non-existence, this particular one turned into a devil with some kind of a personal vendetta against him.

 

To sum, he truly has never encountered Jung Yunho in the last twenty-six years of his life.

 

But Jung Yunho is neither a dream nor a figment of an over-driven imagination.

 

He lives, breathes and has the apparent shape of a stalker.

 

 

 

The incessant ringing continues to resound throughout the flat, so Changmin decides to take the phone out of the cupboard and stuff it into one of the throw pillows on the couch instead. He sets it to silent this time around, and the phone vibrates like an overstimulated goat on steroids begging for release, but at least now the sound is a quieter humming and he can write in peace without interference from demons or stalkers.

 

Changmin sits at his work desk and counts the number of sentences he’s written so far on his laptop. Eleven. Good, he’s made significant progress from the zero two days ago. He has only how many days left before the deadline? One, two—he can hear the phone vibrating again—and then he promised to cough up the first three chapters so he only needs—vibrate—oh, what did his editor say again about having a tooth pulled for every unfinished chapter—vibrate—oh. my. god.

 

Changmin lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

 

It’s five days to his deadline.

 

He’s still on the first page of the manuscript.

 

“Concentrate, Shim, concentrate,” he stretches his fingers and huffs, “You are zen. You are the bomb! You can do this, no problem. No problem at all,” he laughs the most evil laugh he can muster, and lets the sound of it boom all over the room as his wiggling fingers descend very slowly on the keyboard for a full dramatic effect.

 

There’s a knock on the door.

 

“No, there isn’t.”

 

There’s a knock again, the same three raps of knock-knock-knock.

 

“No there isn’t. Concentrate, Changmin. Fighting!” Changmin slaps his face twice for attention, but his eyes are trailing side-ward to the door, waiting for the third knock.

 

Nothing comes.

 

Changmin does a fist-pump.

 

He hears a cough, someone clearing their throat from the outside, and Changmin’s body stiffens by instinct.

 

“Shim Changmin,” it begins with a shout, “I’m going to count to ten and when I get to five you will have opened this damn door.”

 

The doorknob rattles slightly. It’s that woman, and she is most definitely trying to open the door by force, “If I get to six and this door is still closed, I’ll bust it open and I’m telling you this right now, the door won’t be the only thing that’ll be busted when I’m done.”

 

“No,” Changmin whispers, closing his eyes and fully intent on keeping the door closed.

 

“One.”

 

“No.”

 

“Two.”

 

“I'm not here.”

 

“Three.”

 

"I've become one with my surroundings," Changmin mutters as he opens one eye to look at the front door, at the green flakes of paint near its rusty hinges, “…I am the universe the universe is me.”

 

“Four.”

 

“Uh,” Changmin gulps, "okay maybe not."

 

The chain on the lock swings faintly.

 

“Fi—“

 

“Fine!” Changmin slams the door wide-open, and there’s his editor, right foot raised and clearly with an intent to destroy. With her stilettos.

 

“Good boy. Now let me see your progress.”

 

“You can’t kick my door open! You’re wearing heels! Get out, let’s do that again.”

 

She fishes out a set of keys from her bag, and dangles it in front of him with a smug face.

 

Changmin gapes at her.

 

“No… it can’t be.”

 

“Yes, indeed it can. So show it to me,” she struts past him and to his work area without even bothering to take off her designer shoes.

 

Changmin has at least five objections at the tip of his tongue right now, but one of them rushes out without delay, “How did you get a copy of my keys?”

 

She’s about to answer him when she sees the opened document on Changmin’s computer.

 

Changmin’s mouth dries. As per their habit, his own hands betray him and gently raise themselves up into the air, “B-b-boa… I can explain.”

 

Boa starts walking toward him, heels clacking like the ticking of a bomb. Changmin’s hands are still up in the air when she reaches him, and he realizes a step too late that the war horns have sounded and a defensive stance is in order. She knees him straight and square in the groin and then Changmin is on the floor, squirming and holding on to dear life. There are tears in his eyes and galaxies dying in his mind as he claws on the wooden flooring. His gut just shot up straight to his throat, wanting out.

 

He looks up and there’s Boa, with her signature deceptively-humane smile.

 

“You said you’re not busting anything if I opened the door! Cheater!”

 

“Oh, you and your cute fantasies. I said nothing of the sort. Five days, Changmin,” She places her right foot on his chest and Changmin hears himself whimper when her heels lightly twist, “and pick up your damn phone.”

 

She walks over him and slams the door shut.

 

 

The Peanut Gallery, which dutifully held its silence throughout, bursts into a commotion.

 

_"Forget about ‘concubine’! She’s Satan! Pack up your things and leave!"_

 

_"Dude this is the second time in a week you’re on the floor. Tsk. And did you just whimper? What a wuss."_

 

_"Ooh, burn!"_

 

“Shit, shit, shit.” Changmin curls into himself, “It’s crushed, I’m never gonna have babies. Murderer! Ow, ow…”

 

  

\---

 

 

**Incoming call**   
**[Supercreeper]**

Changmin stares at the phone on his right hand, and then checks his left hand covering his battered crotch.

 

He’s just gonna try to—

 

His phone slides off, and his thumb swipes across the screen and answers the call.

 

 _Um_.

 

 

\---

 

 

For the second time today, there’s someone knocking on the door.

 

Changmin’s breath hitches and he bites on his tongue to keep himself from making any noise. Gently, he removes the steeper from the tea pot and replaces the cover, before stealthily tiptoeing to the front door. He takes extra care not to bump into any furniture along the way. After all, the devil may have decided that she wanted to have her second coming on the same day and drag him to hell with her this time around. Better safe than sorry.

 

Changmin swipes open the peephole cover and squints.

 

It’s not the devil who’s outside.

 

But it’s still a nightmare.

 

He’d take a nightmare over a devil anytime. Changmin unlocks the door and cracks it open.

 

“Changmin!” The nightmare, Supercreeper, greets. He’s dressed in plain button-up and jeans, a blazer draped on his shoulder. Looking at the briefcase he’s holding, it seems he just got off from work. Changmin considers changing out of his shirt and sweats, but scraps the thought. There's no need to dress up for this guy.

 

Changmin plasters on what he thinks to be his friendly smile, with teeth and gums and very wide eyes.

 

 _Very_  wide eyes.

 

Supercreeper seems taken aback.

 

Changmin’s not surprised; he’s always been quite the stunner, if he may say so.

 

“Supe—Jung-shii,” Changmin stretches his face further and Supercreeper’s own smile seems to have frozen, “Let’s talk inside.”

 

They stay in that position for a few seconds, both of them awkward and totally unsure of what they’re doing.

 

“Ah! Where are my manners,” Supercreeper bows, and bows further. And he’s not stopping, why is he not stopping, if he keeps at this, he’s going to fold into him—

 

“Jung-shii!” Changmin almost flings off the door, “That’s enough, I understand. Come in.”

 

“Ah, yes, sorry to intrude,” Supercreeper says as he enters, and really, Changmin has a lot to say about intruding, but he puts it aside just this time.

 

“Wait here. I prepared us tea.”

 

“Alright! By the way, call me Yunho, please.”

 

“That's—that’s…” 

 

Too fast, too soon. Or so Changmin wants to say, but that sounds like they’re talking about an entirely different matter, something on the borderline of dubious and shady.

 

“Jung-shii, I believe that’s…” Changmin tries again to break it to him without actually breaking him, but Supercreeper’s eyeing him expectantly like Mangdoongie did back in the past when the dog still considered Changmin as her master. Before she experienced firsthand what it’s like to live on a writer’s measly earnings, with overdue bills taking precedence over self-digesting stomachs, and where a stale bagel is three days’ worth of meals.

 

He has since given Mangdoongie to his parents, where she ate until she forgot everything about him

 

It’s all in the past now, and Changmin has progressed to one bagel a day, but despite that the adoration he received from those eyes remains unparalleled. It’s the most he’s ever gotten from any living thing.

 

Now Supercreeper is looking at him just like that, and it’s against the—

 

“Okay. I’ll try to, then.” 

 

Changmin wants to weep over the people who couldn’t even look at him better than his dog did.

 

 

\---

 

 

“Here,” Changmin places a steaming cup of tea in front of Yunho, who’s busied himself with the research materials scattered on the table.

 

“This is really kind of you, thanks.”

 

“It’s nothing. You said something about helping me out with my work?”

 

“Yes, I did,” Yunho shuts the book he’s holding, “I’m your muse!”

 

Changmin cracks up at that.

 

 Yunho’s beaming at him.

 

“That’s a good one!” Changmin laughs some more. He’s got to admit, the man has his own sense of humor, “But to be serious, I really need a jumpstart with my current work. There’s an idea, but I’m not convinced on how best to proceed since there’s nothing much after the initial spark, and now my deadline’s less than a week away. My editor isn’t the most forgiving person on earth, so… will you help me?”

 

“Yes, that’s exactly where I come in, as your muse.”

 

“No, no, that’s not it. I’m not asking you to be my muse.”

 

“You don’t have to, because I already am.”

 

“No, it’s alright. There’s no need to go  _that_  far—“

 

“Changmin. I’m your muse.”

 

"What. No. Wait. No. I’m… confused."

 

“You’re an artist, a writer, right? All artists in the world are given by the gods their own muses to serve as their primary artistic inspiration, and for you that’s me. Muses call their destined artists ‘Mediums’. Simply put, you’re my medium, and I’m your muse.”

 

Changmin’s eyes trail down to Yunho’s chest.

 

“You’re male,” he expertly points out, as if it’s the most urgent matter out of everything Yunho just told him.

 

“It’s a bit unusual, but male muses do exist,” Yunho points a finger to himself, “Case in point.”

 

“I’m male,” Changmin quickly follows up, because it seems like the proper time to present the obvious, and also because it felt like his gender suddenly required immediate validation from someone. Anyone.

 

“Yes,” Yunho nods in agreement.

 

Changmin doesn’t feel validated at all.

 

Yunho sips on his tea, completely oblivious to the identity war raging inside Changmin’s mind. Changmin tries to recall the gender written on all his official documents: his birth certificate, passport, social security, driving license, and his registration at the Elite Society of Lego Masters. All of them listed him as “male”. And Changmin is sure he was sober earlier this afternoon while he was doing his usual order of business in the toilet. He held, positively, undeniably, and without any inch of doubt, a remarkable dick in his hand.

 

Changmin concludes after piecing the facts together, “We’re both males.”

 

“Well, that would appear to be the case.”

 

“That’s… okay? Isn’t there a rule that these ‘mediums’ and ‘muses’ pairings be made of different sexes?”

 

“Oh, yes. In fact, that’s the common arrangement. Same-sex pairings are of extreme rarity even among the international circles, but that’s why they’re—I mean, we’re—considered prized matches.”

 

 

Changmin wishes he never prayed to be special during that one dark night twenty years ago. He should’ve been more specific, more to the point, because you never know when Santa or Satan or Satan Santa will come down the front door and make sure he screwed your order up. Changmin should’ve written another word after ‘special’ like ‘special dog’ or ‘special bagel’ or ‘special dick’. Or better yet, a word before it, like ‘nothing special’.

 

That’s what he’d like to be right now –a most common citizen of the most common earth.

 

 “So. You. And me,” Changmin points to himself then to Yunho, “we’re…?”

 

“A prized match.”

 

“No! Wait. Not that. What I meant was, you—you’re saying you’re my inspiration? Literally?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Literally  _the_  inspiration made for me?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’re my muse?”

 

“I realize it’s a bit preposterous…”

 

“You think?” This entire thing isn’t even  _a bit_  preposterous, it's  _downright_ preposterous.

 

“But you’ll get used to it!”

 

Changmin doesn’t want to get used to  _any_  of it.

 

“Could we start off with something more believable?”

 

“Believable?”

 

“Yeah. Because you’re kind of a stranger, and I still can’t wrap my head around the thought that you’re supposed to be my…” Changmin eyes Yunho’s chest again, as if it’ll magically sprout a pair of nurturing breasts. This is getting harder and harder to digest by the second, harder than the week-old bagel Changmin once ate which was so hard it could probably smash his grandpa’s dentures.

 

“Something believable…” Yunho places his cup on a clear spot on the table, “Okay, how about this.”

 

Changmin watches him cover the cup with his palm.

 

Nothing happens.

 

“I’m not really getting you here. What are you trying to do? Scald yourself?”

 

“Wait.”

 

Changmin waits.

 

Nothing happens.

 

Changmin waits some more.

 

Yunho lifts his hand, and…

 

What. 

 

What the hell.

 

What the hell is that?

 

There’s the whole mass of tea and, and...

 

It’s floating.

 

“What the hell is that?!”

 

“It’s the tea, Changmin.”

 

“I-I know, wh-what did you do to the tea?”

 

“I guided it to a heart shape?”

 

“You what? And that—you're definitely heartless to even call that a heart!”

 

The heart falls back into the cup with a splash, leaving harsh splotches on Changmin’s opened research materials. A shrill whistle breaks out of Changmin's brain: those are Boa's books.

 

Those are Boa's books.  
Those are _Boa's books._  
Those are _Boa_ 's books.  
and three of _Boa's_ books are _soaked_.

 

“You... that… you…”

 

Boa had so generously lent him those books to help Changmin in his research for his current novel, after making sure that he understood how it was essentially out of her magnanimity and after explicitly lecturing him on its proper care. By explicitly, it means Boa made him understand any possible repercussions and concussions that might befall Changmin if it gets even the slightest scratch from any activity that does not constitute normal perusal.

 

Now three of Boa’s books are soaked.

 

He’s going to get a hemorrhage.

 

"You... you..."

 

“Yunho. My name’s Yunho.”

 

“No. No.”

 

“Yes, good, now put the two together: Yunho.”

 

“No!”

 

Yunho frowns, “It’s Yunho. Yun—“

 

“No!” Changmin frantically points at the drenched papers, “Listen to me! The books! The books, you—the books!”

 

"Ah," Yunho swipes a hand over them, "there we go." 

 

The blotches drain off the pages and back into the cup.

 

Changmin puts his finger on one of the papers.

 

It’s dry.

 

All color drains off Changmin’s face.

 

“You…”

 

Yunho nods, “Yunho.”

 

Changmin grits his teeth. This guy is seriously out of his wavelength, “ _Yunho_. What did you just…“

 

“Ah, that. Right, I’m a descendant of the water muses.”

 

This… guy.

 

Changmin feels like clawing his own face off, “You’re saying now that muses can control elements?”

 

“No, that part came from my father. He’s a water god.”

 

Changmin wants to hurl himself into a wall.

 

“Okay.  _Okay,_ ” Changmin hisses a breath, willing his utmost patience out of his system,“First of all, I’m  _appalled_  with what you did to such an excellent cup of tea. Second, this is utterly nuts. I  _said_  let’s start with something  _believable_  and you go and give me a… a heart that looks like it's been through too much crisis for its own good. Third, you’re telling me you’re practically a  _demi-god_? Which part, I repeat, which fuc—which part of this ridiculous shit is ‘believable’ to you?”

 

Yunho blinks twice, taken aback from his sudden outburst of words. He tilts his head in thought.

 

“Everything? I may be a demi-god, Changmin, but more than that I’m a muse. Your muse!”

 

“That. You’ve made that point infinitely clear,” Changmin is now pacing back and forth by the counter, trying his best to keep up with everything that’s just happened, “That part actually seems a lot more believable now, so let’s go back to that. How do we know you’re my muse?”

 

“When muses reach a certain age, they’re brought to the Oracle to hear prophecies on their destined Mediums.”

 

Changmin stops on his tracks. An Oracle? Prophecies? In this day and age? An Oracle prophesied him to be gay? “So you’ve known ever since then that it was me?”

 

“More or less, but I still had to search for you myself. I found you back when you were still writing for the university newspaper.”

 

“The uni—that was ten years ago! How come we’re only meeting now?”

 

“That’s on you.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“The first communication should be initiated by the Medium. Muses can’t just go and present themselves ahead of time. You were supposed to find me when you’ve developed a certain degree of proficiency in your art form, since meeting your muse will elevate your art.”

 

To be honest the only thing Changmin has developed a certain degree of proficiency in over the last ten years is his alcohol consumption, and there on his couch right now, sits the sad result of the said expertise.

 

Changmin taps his foot impatiently and bites on his thumb. He looks at Yunho who’s innocuously drinking tea, the same tea he had thrashed earlier.

 

Now the idea of having this—muse, male, mule, whatever—is truly, completely, nothing but absurd. Changmin’s sure he’s never heard anything like this before. Yunho’s supposed to be just your regular kind of stalker. But he just did that stunt with the tea. Surely regular stalkers can't do that. Stalkers having power over water is basically the same as criminals brandishing guns. Or Changmin owning Legoland. If any of those happened, the nation would fall into a state of emergency. But what if Yunho was a _special_  stalker? Or worse, a professional conman? But he doesn’t look like a conman. But then again, Changmin doesn't know how conmen are supposed to look like. It's not as if conmen come in standardized, mass-produced quantities all looking alike and bearing the sign ˹I am Conman˼. Society's a little more complex than that, and people... well people practically breathe to breed complications.

 

But really, this is just absurd.

 

Yunho said he's been given to him by the gods. Was it perhaps to save Changmin from the clutches of Satan's concubine, Boa? Changmin gives his laptop another glance. He thinks back to this morning’s encounter with Boa, which inevitably leads him to checking his own crotch again. It makes sense, right. The gods must have foreseen his predicament, and Yunho's here to make sure that Changmin's virility stays intact. It doesn't necessarily mean that as a muse Changmin has to do that—that _thing_ with Yunho, right? Yunho is here to save him and ensure that he'll be able to have children and grandchildren in the future, right? Maybe this is merely a part of a bigger picture, the great divide between good and evil, and maybe Changmin's actually on the side of the gods.

 

Yes, because Changmin's heart is as pure as freshly trampled snow, so he has found the favor of gods. 

 

It's not absurd.

 

“All right, fine. So how do we do this?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“What do you mean you don’t know.”

 

“There are circumstances— but I knew another muse years ago, Heechul. His Medium was a sculptor. I remember he told me he’d re…” Yunho looks around his flat, “Sorry, can I use your bathroom?”

 

“Huh? Yeah, sure. Second door to your left.”

 

Changmin sips on his now lukewarm tea while waiting for Yunho. All is good. He will be saved. But the gods could have been kinder, really. There was no need for that entire downtown stunt to lead him to his muse. Could he not have stumbled upon him in a coffee shop instead? No, he probably wouldn’t have approached a guy even if it was a showstopper like him. No that’s not it. Changmin would never approach a guy, period. Besides he can’t even remember the last time he went to a café. Too expensive. The museum where he works? The entrance also costs money. The streets? He’s not the type to look at every person he passe—

 

Changmin spits out his tea.

 

There’s Yunho, fresh from the bathroom, naked as the day he was born.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me hear your thoughts! ;_;
> 
> The short tail (Part II) of this will be up in a week. ε=ε=ε=ε=┌(；　・＿・)┘


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